Blink of an Eye
by MrSpockify
Summary: Sometimes life seems to drag on at a sluggish pace, drawing out infinitely. But when it finally comes to an end, you realize it's all gone by in the blink of an eye, and you'd give anything for it to be longer. Johnlock.
1. Proposal

**Notes:** This was an idea that popped into my head the other day. I think it'll end up being in five parts, but it may be more or less depending on what I decide to include. Basically, it will consist of snippets of John and Sherlock's life. I hope you enjoy them. :)

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**Blink of an Eye**

"Here you are, John," Sherlock announced as he stepped through the door to the flat. The detective tossed a small red box to his flat mate then proceeded to take off his scarf and coat casually, just like any other day. John caught the box, turning it over in his hands with a furrowed brow. It was small enough to fit in his hands and covered in deep red velvet, broken only by the thin line that separated the lid from the bottom.

"What is it?" He looked over at Sherlock, who was pouring himself a cup of tea.

"Well, if you open it," he said, sounding a tad irritated. He turned his colorful eyes towards John, taking his mug with him as he sat down on his chair. He looked completely nonchalant, giving nothing away to the blogger as he sipped his drink.

Sighing, John flipped the lid open, marveling at the soft silk inside for only a moment. He was only able to focus on the white fabric for a few seconds, because tucked inside the silk, reflecting the light from the lamp, was a gold ring. He looked at it for a long time before blinking and staring at his flat mate.

"What is this?" He turned the box so Sherlock could see the piece of jewelry inside, just in case he had mistakenly given him something he shouldn't have.

"That would be a _ring_, John," he said, not even looking up from his tea.

"Yes, I _know_ it's a ring." He licked his lips, willing the other man to at least make eye contact with him. He couldn't even _begin_ to guess what the detective was thinking. "But why?"

Sherlock sighed and set down his tea in an exasperated manner, as if John was asking him to perform a monstrous task by asking him to explain. "Well, John," he said, steepling his fingers in front of his lips, "that's a wedding ring." He said it slowly and carefully, but he might as well have stood on the table and hit John upside the head with a hammer whilst screaming like a banshee.

The ex-army doctor gaped, the box in his hand feeling suddenly like a very large, very heavy brick. His heart sprang to his throat and his stomach dropped, making him unable to create a coherent thought. "Wh… What?" He blinked and licked his lips nervously, annoyed when Sherlock sat back in his chair and grabbed the newspaper, unfolding it to cover his face. "Sherlock?" There was no response, only a turn of the page. "Sherlock, are you asking me to marry you?"

"No." John's heart sank suddenly, and he found himself feeling hurt. Why was he hurt? He shouldn't be hurt. This was good, wasn't it?

"Oh," he muttered, trying to sound pleased but sounding kind of constipated instead.

"I don't need to ask," Sherlock said, lowering the paper so he was peering over. John gave him an inquiring look, and the detective smiled and set the paper down, taking a sip of his drink before continuing. "I already know the answer."

"Oh?" John felt indignant at being so easily read; he was _not_ that predictable. "And what is my answer, _Sherlock_?" He spat out the name, hoping he sounded firm. His flat mate just smiled smugly back.

"I had the ring sized, so it will fit you. And I sent out invitations to your close relatives; I assume you want them to attend. I sent them to Mrs. Hudson, Molly, and Lestrade, too, because you seem close. If you want anyone else invited or uninvited let me know, and I'll take care of it." He leaned back, seemingly finished. "Oh, and you're going in Friday to be fitted for your tux."

"You make it sound like I already said yes," John said, clenching his jaw tightly.

"You have." John was about to ask what he meant, but Sherlock raised an eyebrow and one half of his mouth. "You put the ring on right after I said it would fit." He pointed to his hand, and when John looked down, sure enough, the ring was resting on his finger comfortably. He didn't even remember doing that.

Sherlock grabbed the paper and hid his face behind it again, leaving John to sit back and stare at his finger. He found himself laughing, and when his flat mate —_fiancé_, he reminded himself happily —asked him why, he just shrugged and shook his head, because he really had no idea.

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**Notes: **Hello again. If it's not too much to ask, I was wondering if perhaps I could have your opinions on future chapters. I've been back and forth about them having a kid, so I wonder if any of you want to see them have a kid or not? It would only be one or two of the stories included(and it would also make it seven or eight parts instead). If I could have your input that would help me _loads_. Thank you very much! :)


	2. Marriage

Marriage

John was nervous as hell. Though his suit was perfectly tailored, his tie felt like it was snake, constricting his neck gradually as he waited at the alter; the jacket felt like it was pulling at his shoulders, trying to throw him onto the floor; he was fairly certain his shoes were overflowing with sweat; and he was almost positive his belt was persistently trying to squeeze the nervous pee out of him.

To bide time he looked at the people in attendance, many of which were watching him, which only made him more anxious. Mrs. Hudson was in the first row, grinning broadly despite her watery eyes. Molly sat beside her, deep in a conversation with Lestrade. Beside them, Harry and John's mother were giggling quietly, while behind them his father was looking everywhere but at him, obviously getting teary-eyed. More members of his family were scattered about the small church, mingling with friends; he and Sherlock decided on a small wedding. Or, more precisely, Sherlock had already guessed John wanted a small wedding and planned accordingly.

The tiny orchestra in the corner of the room began playing Pachbel's canon in D Major, Sherlock's choice, much to his surprise. The detective had wanted to be a part of the orchestra, and only didn't because John told him he wasn't allowed to play the violin while he walked down the aisle.

At the start of the song, John felt his stomach churn painfully, and he thought he might be sick. He wasn't sure why he was so nervous, but he certainly didn't try to deny it. The room silenced, and by now everyone was looking in his direction, making the snake around his neck constrict painfully. He focused on breathing, just hoping no body fluids would be released in an embarrassing manner.

Just when he felt he might pass out, two figures stepped out onto the aisle, as far away from each other as possible as they walked. Sherlock, with his eyes watching no one but John, strode next to Mycroft, who was staring straight ahead stiffly. John had insisted the older Holmes be included in the wedding, despite his fiancé's constant refusal. In the end, John had invited the brother himself, earning a disapproving snort from Sherlock.

People chuckled as they noticed how far away from each other the brothers were, and how quickly they were walking down the aisle, as if eager to be done with it. John had chosen to have them walk down the aisle, figuring he probably wouldn't have made it himself. He had been able to choose pretty much everything about the wedding, right down to the cake flavor, venue, and lighting. Sherlock had only wanted to choose the music and tuxedoes, both of which John was pretty clueless about, so he welcomed the relief from the decisions.

Sherlock and Mycroft took quick, long strides to get to the end of the aisle, nodding curtly before walking off to where each of them were supposed to stand. When he stood in front of John, appearing as dapper as usual in his tux, Sherlock looked… bored. He smiled nonetheless, and John couldn't get mad at him. At least the detective was trying.

"Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today to join these two men," the priest started, saying the newly revised version, which had been edited by Sherlock himself. Since the detective already knew what was going to be said, he seemed to zone out, looking over his fiancé's shoulder. John ignored him and listened, eager to hear what had been revised.

The new version was short. Very, very short. John, along with the murmuring crowd, was shocked that the ceremony was to the vows in what seemed like less than a paragraph. Although, since he knew his fiancé, he assumed Sherlock thought it all very dull and unnecessary. He inwardly chuckled at the thought.

"I, uh, John Watson," he stuttered at first, feeling put on the spot. After a moment he regained his composure and looked at Sherlock, finding comfort in the blue eyes. "I, John Watson, take you, Sherlock Holmes, to be my husband, my best friend, and my only partner from this day forward, to have and to hold, for better and for worse, through sickness and in health, until death do us part." He finished quietly, surprised at the sudden emotional onslaught. He cleared his throat and looked to the man in front of him, waiting for his vows to be reciprocated. They had decided to go with traditional vows in the end, figuring neither of them had much time to write their own.

"Where can I possibly begin?" Sherlock let out a long breath, shrugging minutely. What was he doing? John furrowed his brow, knowing that that was not the vow they had rehearsed. And knowing the detective had even less time on his hands than himself, John could safely assume Sherlock was making this up on the spot. Something coiled in his stomach at the thought. "John," he said, reaching forward and taking both his hands in his own, "you are literally the only person that will have me. No one can stand to have me in the same room for a long period of time, let alone manage to live with me for years, and now live with me for the rest of your life. I'm sure everyone here will agree with me in saying you're a saint." The audience laughed in unison, and a smile played at the edges of John's lips.

"I could stand here all day apologizing for everything I've ever put you through, and though I'm sure that is something I _should_ do, I won't. Everything that has happened has led up to this moment. Every crime scene, every gunshot, every severed head in the fridge… Every moment in my life has led me to this alter, and I wouldn't change a single thing.

"John Hamish Watson, I have never loved someone like I love you. I stand here today because I want to be your husband, and as we both know, I _always_ get what I want." The audience shared another laugh, and John couldn't help the one that bubbled out of his own mouth. Sherlock waited for the laughter to die down before he continued, sincerity dripping from every word. "You have been by my side for the longest time, and I want to give that back to you. I will be there for you, whenever you need me. Whether it's convenient or inconvenient, it doesn't matter. I love you, John," he smiled, "and I always will."

"Well, damn," John choked out, wiping his cheeks with the back of his hand. He certainly hadn't seen that coming, and it hadn't helped in his attempt to not get too emotional.

"John Watson, do you take this man to be your husband?"

"I do," he said, unsure how _anyone_ could say no after that speech.

"Sherlock Holmes, do you—"

"I do," he interrupted, looking a little less bored now. His eyes shone with excitement, and he bounced slightly on his toes.

The priest gestured for the rings to be brought forth, and both men exchanged them, John giving his a once over. Both his gold ring and Sherlock's silver one had been inscribed to say _I've Just Got One_, something they decided would be special. They put on the rings and looked at each other, sharing unspoken thoughts.

"By the power invested upon me, I now pronounce you husband and husband, lawful partners. You may kiss," he finished and bowed his head to each man, and the two of them leaned in, pressing their lips on each other's and drowning out the surprisingly enormous applause that erupted from the small crowd. When they pulled away and moved the ceremony to the other room for continuation, John couldn't help but smile at his ring. Really, there was no better thing it could have said.

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**Notes: **Thank you for reading this chapter in the lives of John and Sherlock. I hope you enjoyed it. I certainly had fun writing this one. :)


	3. Parenthood

**Notes: **Thank you all for the favorites, alerts, and reviews. They mean a lot to me. :)

So, if you hadn't noticed, this chapter is called 'Parenthood' which means that I decided to have them have a kid. I have it planned that there will be two more chapters involving parenthood. Unless everyone hates how I write their kid... In that case, there probably won't... Haha

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Parenthood

To say Sherlock was an amateur at parenting was the epitome of an understatement. He didn't mean to be so terrible at it, but he really couldn't help it. A headache sprung up every time his baby cried, he hardly knew the fundamentals of changing a diaper, and, much to his horror, he had nearly dropped the infant on more than one occasion. Due to this, when it came to being left alone with little Hamish for the very first time as John returned to work, Sherlock was utterly terrified.

"You'll be fine," John ensured him, leaving him with a chaste kiss. The door closed, the loud click seeming to resound around the room for a while as the detective just stood there, holding the small, sleeping bundle in his arms.

"We'll be fine," he muttered to himself, walking oh-so-carefully to the living room. He placed the baby in his basket, breathing a sigh of relief when he didn't wake.

It was very different, having a baby. He couldn't take as many cases, because when he did John would complain about being left alone. So he turned down most of them, even if they involved a serial murderer. He tried to stay out of trouble for the baby's sake; the last thing they needed was a bomb planted by a spiteful enemy of his. It was hard to be in a more domestic setting, but Sherlock was far from bored. If anything, he wished he could have a moment of silence.

As if on cue, Hamish started to mewl quietly, stirring from his sleep. The detective clenched his fists tightly, urging him to fall back into his peaceful slumber. The whimpers grew louder, of course, crescendoing into an ear-splitting wail. Sherlock wanted to join Hamish in his howling, but instead took him in his arms. He held him awkwardly for a moment, trying to find where to put his hands without dropping him on his head.

"_Shhh_," he insisted, rocking him in what he was sure was an incorrect fashion. Certainly he was rocking him too hard? Was it okay to let that arm hang off like that? Was he holding him at a wrong angle? Sherlock was positive he was doing everything wrong, and he wanted nothing more than to have John back home. Whenever the detective got something wrong, he'd just take over for him, going in with a brave face and making everything look so simple.

He quieted down after what seemed like hours to Sherlock, and Hamish looked up at him with clear blue eyes. He looked far too innocent for someone who could produce such heart-wrenching noises and gut-wrenching smells. Sherlock was ashamed to say he couldn't bear the smell of a dirty diaper, another reason he was such a bad parent. How did John do it so _easily_?

Hamish started squirming in his arms, nearly wriggling out of his grip. His diaper was dry, and he had just taken a nap, so Sherlock could only assume he was hungry, and he hoped dearly he could get this right.

Setting Hamish back into his basket, Sherlock went to the kitchen to prepare a bottle. John had shown him how to do it nearly a dozen times, but he still only got it right half the time. He checked the temperature on his wrist, but the moment it hit his skin he realized he wasn't sure how hot or cold it was supposed to feel. He just stared quite dumbly at the white liquid as it dripped off his arm and down to the floor, completely lost.

Behind him, Hamish started whimpering pitifully in his basket. "I'm sorry," Sherlock snapped rather loudly, thinking it silly to talk to a baby like it would understand him. In response, the infant cried louder, starting to fidget. "I'm _trying_," he barked, bringing his arm to his mouth. His tongue darted out to taste his wrist, but he still couldn't tell if it was the right temperature. Had John said it couldn't be too hot or too cold? Or was it both? Was he even _supposed_ to warm it? Hamish wailed louder yet, peaking at a high-pitched scream. Sherlock threw the bottle to the ground in frustration, turning to the basket and contorting his face angrily. "I. Am. _Trying_!"

The moment he realized what he was doing, Sherlock backed away from the baby, nearly slipping on the puddle of milk that had splattered from the bottle. He pressed a hand over his mouth, listening to the frightened cries of his child as he writhed in his sheets. Hamish waggled fretfully, one arm getting hooked under his blanket. He pulled it up, screaming louder when it became caught over half his face.

"No," Sherlock whispered gently, walking forward. "Don't do that." He took the sheet off his face, trying to ignore the fact that his hands were shaking terribly. "You'll suffocate yourself." At least he knew that, he thought, glad he could save his baby from potential smothering. He ran his fingers lightly through Hamish's dark curls that were still short and soft with infancy, and the baby quieted down some, seeming to react to the gentle touch.

Sherlock realized that they were both new at this. Here was Hamish, merely a baby, who saw and learned new things every day. He didn't know what to do, just like his father. It was hard to be bad at being a baby, though. Being a parent was… different. He wasn't supposed to be confused or lost; he was supposed to be able to do everything perfectly. Sherlock thought he would probably be better off being the baby in this situation.

"Hey, sorry. I got halfway there and realized I forgot my— Oh, shit. What happened?" John paused near the door, holding keys in one hand and staring at his husband. Sherlock was sure he was quite a sight. He stood over the baby's basket with trembling hands and a red face, his eyes stinging with tears that threatened to spill over. An empty bottle was lying near his feet, and milk lied in a puddle and dripped down one wall.

John silently walked over and picked up the bottle, taking a towel to wipe up the mess, all the while watching his husband carefully. Sherlock backed away from the baby, remembering how angry he had been. What if he had thrown the bottle at the basket? What if he had hurt Hamish? His throat tightened at the thought.

"I'm a horrible father," he whispered breathlessly. John was immediately at his side, giving him that look that said don't-you-dare.

"Sherlock…"

"No, John, I am." He tangled his fingers into his own curls, gripping them tightly in exasperation. "I can't get anything right. I put his diapers on backward half the time, I don't know how to prepare his milk, and I can't get him to stop crying. I am so tired, John. All I want to do is sleep for a month. I don't want to clean him or feed him, I just want _sleep_. Hamish must hate me, John. I'm the worst parent ever." Sherlock plopped down on the couch, burying his face in his hands. He could hear his husband kneeling down in front of him, but he refused to look up, feeling guilty about his confessions.

"Sherlock, look at me." John was silent, patiently waiting for the detective to comply. After a moment, he did, looking into his husband's blue-brown eyes and trying not to look pathetic. He was sure he failed, though, because John chuckled. "You are not a terrible father."

"But I—"

"Sherlock, everything you just said to me is what every parent in the world thinks at any given time. It's normal to be tired, and to do things wrong. Hamish is supposed to cry all of the time. He's a _baby_, for God's sake, it isn't your fault." John pulled himself up onto the couch to sit beside Sherlock, holding one of the detective's hands in his own. "You are an amazing father, Sherlock, and you need to remember that."

He didn't reply— he wasn't sure he'd be able to without protesting again— but just nodded slightly, feeling a little reassured. It was nice to know he wasn't the only parent in the world who felt that way.

"I have to go to work," John continued, squeezing his hand comfortingly. "You _will_ be fine, Sherlock. I promise." With that, the ex-army doctor stood and planted a kiss on the top of his head before leaving, shutting the door quietly behind him.

Sherlock looked over at Hamish, who was sleeping soundly now, of course. "I _will_ be fine," he whispered to himself, leaning back on the couch. And for once, he felt like he might be.


	4. Parenthood Part 2

**Notes:** Guess who hasn't updates their Sherlock in a long time and doesn't feel bad at all?

Steven Moffat, that's who.

I, on the other hand, feel awful for not updating in a while. I'm so sorry! I don't even have an excuse, really...

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Parenthood: Part Two

"Dad?" John turned at the sound of Hamish's voice, looking down at the child from pouring himself a cup of tea. The boy looked up at him innocently, a stray black curl falling over his forehead. He really did look like his father, John thought. The same dark ringlets, striking eyes, and long frame. He was a miniature Sherlock, right down to the sharp mind they shared.

"Yes, Hamish?" He finished pouring his cup of tea and walked to the living room, setting himself down in his chair. His son trailed closely behind, halting right beside the arm of the chair and staring at his feet. Unlike with Sherlock, John could actually tell when something was on the boy's mind, and something was clearly plaguing his thoughts now. "What's wrong?"

He didn't reply immediately, but seemed to be thinking of a way to phrase what he had to say. After a moment, he looked up into his dad's eyes, his own eyes wide and fearful. "Why doesn't Father like me?"

John's stomach fell instantly, and he nearly dropped the mug he held in his hands. Slowly, carefully, he set it on the coffee table and turned to his son. His pathetic expression made him feel partially horrified that Hamish would ever think that, and partially furious that Sherlock had ever done something to plant the idea in his mind.

"Of course your father likes you," he said steadily, reaching out and holding his son's shoulders. "He loves you, Hamish. Why would you think something like that?"

"He doesn't want to talk to me or spend time with me," he said, his eyes growing wider and his mouth turning down at the edges. His voice was already swelling, turning shrill and desperate. "I tried to go talk to him earlier and he yelled at me and told me to get out. When I tried to apologize he just told me to be quiet and leave." By now Hamish had tears streaming down his pale face, leaving glistening trails on his cheeks. Beneath his fingers, John could feel his son trembling lightly, and he felt nothing but anger toward his husband.

"Excuse me, Hamish. I'm going to have a word with your father." He stood and stormed off, the sniveling from behind him only infuriating him more. What the hell was wrong with Sherlock? He could be rude to Anderson, fine. He could insult Sally and ignore Molly, fine. He could even take a jab at Lestrade, that didn't matter. But when the detective made his own son cry, then something had to be done.

He blundered through the door, trying to be as intrusive and loud as he possibly could. Sherlock was on the bed, facing the ceiling with his hands in a steeple underneath his chin. His eyes had been closed, but at the boisterous entrance he opened them, glancing briefly at his husband before looking back at the ceiling.

"John, I am trying to think. Please leave." The words had hardly left the detective's mouth when John was at the foot of the bed.

"No," he barked, earning an eyebrow raise from his husband. Usually when Sherlock was in his mind palace, John left him to it. This time, it was different. "Sit up and listen," he ordered, but the other man gave no hint of the intent to do so. Determined, John wrapped his fingers around the detective's ankles, causing him to look up from his pillow in confusion. The shorter man counted to three in his mind, slightly satisfied when he got to three and violently yanked his husband by the ankles to the edge of the bed, nearly pulling him off entirely. A ruffled and stunned Sherlock tensed and slowly sat up, straightening his shirt that had ridden up to expose his stomach and back.

"Alright," he said tersely, clenching his jaw, "I am up. What do you want that is so urgent?"

"Maybe you should ask your son, who's currently crying downstairs because he thinks his father hates him." John found himself whisper-shouting, afraid Hamish might be able to hear him from the living room, though he really felt like leaning in and giving Sherlock a piece of his mind with his loudest possibly shout.

"Why should I ask Hamish when you just told me the problem?"

"Sherlock," John stepped back and took a deep breath, covering his face with his hands. Sometimes this smartass act really pressed him the wrong way. "Your _son _thinks you _hate_ him. Please tell me you're not too ignorant to realize how wrong this is."

"He is a child, John. He will get over this and realize he is wrong. I'm sure all kids his age go through this. Now, if you wouldn't mind?" He gestured with his hands to the door. "And close it behind you."

"I am not leaving this room until you get off your lazy ass and go fix this." He crossed his arms over his chest, staring down at his husband, who had the nerve to look calm.

"Fine," he nearly growled, standing up from the bed and resting mere centimeters from John. "I don't see why I have to do this, though."

"Sherlock, I am asking you to be a _father_. If you're too busy to do that, maybe you should just fucking _leave_." He looked up at the detective, refusing to budge. He knew he was being harsh, but it was the only way to get through to the arrogant man. Still, he could see the shock apparent on his face.

Sherlock tilted his head to the side, one eyebrow rising. "Perhaps I should, then," he spat, then stormed out of the room in his typical vehement fashion. John was left staring at the empty bed, his jaw hanging open and his eyes wide. Sherlock could be a complete cock, but sometimes he really did get offended.

How dare John tell him to leave? He wasn't being a bad father; he was only trying to get some peace and quiet so he could _think_ for once. With Hamish running around and John's constant attention he was lucky to get five minutes of silence to himself. And apparently he couldn't even have that, according to his husband, who had barreled in, shouting insults at him about his son's complaints.

Hamish was just a child. What did he know? He probably had a bad day at school and decided the world hated him. Of course Sherlock loved him. Any other assumption was juvenile and inane: The thoughts of a child.

He wasn't going to sit there and take the insults anymore. He'd been called names his entire life, at school, work, and in public. But being affronted in his own home? That was unacceptable, and he had to show that to John. And if that meant leaving for a day or two, then so be it. By the end of it, John would be begging for him to come back, would he not?

Sherlock smirked to himself as he turned to grab his coat. His hand swiped to take it, but instead his fingers graced over an empty space where it should have been. He turned his head to look at the coat rack, knowing he had hung it there earlier. It was always there.

The consulting detective turned to call out to his husband, hoping he knew where it was. He opened his mouth, but a small sound distracted him. Something between a garbled sob and a low grumble, the noise made its way from Hamish's room. Sherlock walked slowly in its direction, quietly listening. The noise persisted, and the closer he got to the door the more he could make out. It was Hamish, speaking in an exaggeratedly deep voice, with intermingled snuffles. The father pressed himself to the wall beside the door, listening intently.

"His name was M-mathew White, married to… to Carol White. He was in his thirties, and he worked for the grocery store." There was a pause, and the kid sniffled. "Of course he worked at the grocery store, J-john. Look at his shoes." There was another pause, and the shuffle of feet scuffling against the floor mixed with the clinking of wood. Sherlock, figuring Hamish was busy with something, allowed himself to peek around the corner of the door curiously.

Hamish was on his knees, staring intently at a stuffed bear lying beside a wooden block tower. Behind the tower, more blocks were set up to look like houses and buildings, creating a town. His son was swathed in thick, gray cloth from head to toe, and Sherlock was surprised to realize it was his own coat, far too large for the small boy's frame. His hands were lost somewhere within the large arms, and the bottom splayed out behind him like a large blanket. The collar was lifted, shielding most of his face from view, and when he stood he nearly fell down from the weight of the coat. Hamish turned away, facing another stuffed animal, a hedgehog with a furry back, addressing it as he spoke.

"He couldn't have k-killed himself, John," he said excitedly, his voice breaking momentarily with a snivel. "He was pushed from the window. He's faced upwards." He paused for a second, as if listening to someone. Suddenly he swiveled around, pointing at a tiny toy soldier. "Shut up, Ander—" He broke off, staring wide-eyed at his father. He was frozen in place, the too-long sleeve of the coat dangling as he continued to point to his toy.

Sherlock hesitated for a slight moment before walking slowly into the room, standing right above the wooden block tower and staring at the bear, 'Mathew White.' He glanced at Hamish, who looked both terrified and humiliated at being caught. Sherlock nearly smiled, but instead pointed to the bear and turned to 'John,' the stuffed hedgehog.

"He's right, John," he started, and his son stared up at him curiously. "He couldn't have killed himself. He's faced upwards, and if he jumped he would have been facing down." From the corner of his eye, he could see Hamish grinning from ear-to-ear.

John actually felt bad when he made his way from Sherlock's room. Maybe he had been too harsh on his husband. He was stubborn, but he would have come to his senses eventually. Now that he had pushed him, the detective might not ever try to make things right, just to spite him.

He sighed, moving to sit on the couch when the outburst of a fake explosion followed by tumbling blocks sounded from Hamish's room. He furrowed his brow, walking in its direction. Worry flared up as images of his son lying on the ground with a broken leg crossed his mind. Hopefully he hadn't fallen from his bed or his bookshelf fell or…

John paused in the doorway, then quickly jumped out of the way, peering in discreetly at the strange sight. His son was rolling on the floor, clutching a stuffed animal in his arms. He was swallowed by Sherlock's coat, barely visible beneath the thick fabric. John watched as his husband, on the other side of the room on his hands and knees, crawled around an entire city built of wooden blocks, an intense expression on his face. Suddenly his hand shot out, and he knocked over a tall building, repeating the same explosive noise as before.

"No!" Hamish shouted dramatically, tucking himself underneath the oversized coat like a turtle in its shell. "Now we'll never be able to get the hairbrush from his apartment." His hand popped out from underneath the cloth, gripping a stuffed hedgehog. "Shoot him, John," he yelled, pointing the toy towards his father. "_Pew_, _pew_, _pew_!" In response, Sherlock ducked behind the bed, shouting out as if in pain.

John walked off, stifling his laughter until he was far enough away to not be heard. He could still hear his boys playing around when he sat down, and he could only smile to himself as they continued. Sherlock could seem like an arrogant, ignorant man, and God knew he could act it sometimes. But when it was all said and done, Sherlock was a damn good father, and he always would be.


	5. Parenthood Part 3

**Notes: **So, ummmmm... It's been a while, hasn't it? School starts on Tuesday for me (*dies*) and I've been having band for a little while(8 hours a day last week for band camp), so that's mostly what's been keeping me busy.

This is the last parenthood chapter. I was originally writing another one about Hamish getting his first girlfriend, but I spent about two weeks writing and rewriting it over and over again. And the result? Complete crap. It was just really awful and everyone was out of character, so I decided to just scrap it. I went with this instead, because I actually had fun writing it, and it turned out better than the girlfriend story.

I hope you can forgive me for my awful updating (I really am sorry...) and I hope you like this chapter. :)

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Parenthood: Part 3

The school stadium buzzed with impatient children, brooding mothers, and rambunctious graduates. The students were sat in the center of the stadium floor, in fold-up chairs faced towards a stage at the front of the room. The spectators were in the massive ring of seats surrounding the floor, either engrossed in a conversation with other proud parents or silently trying not to let tears spill over quite yet.

Sherlock noted that John was of the latter group, as he was staring out amongst the throng of graduating students, no doubt desperately searching for his own son. His face was void of any reaction, the result of being a soldier in past years. Whenever he was overcome by strong emotions, he cut all of them off. But the detective could still see the slightly irritated redness in his eyes, the miniscule sniffles here and there, and the nervous habit of licking his lips that John couldn't quit.

He himself was not feeling particularly emotional at this event. If anything, he felt pride towards his son, who was not only one of the top graduates of his class, but _the_ top graduate of his class. Hamish had received the news of becoming valedictorian lightly, already aware that he had excelled the other students with flying colors. Still, Sherlock couldn't help but smirk ever so slightly whenever he informed others of his son.

The small collection of band members in the back corner of the stadium began playing Pomp and Circumstance, calling everyone to attention. The students stopped talking, but continued to fidget in their seats, the parents sat absolutely still and erect, and a young infant somewhere in the audience began to cry, the mother forced to reluctantly take him out into the hall. The entire area hushed instantly when the principal walked up to the podium on the stage, leaning forward to speak into the microphone.

"Parents and class of 2030, I welcome you all to graduation," he started, and Sherlock instantly tuned him out. He turned his attention to the students, intent on finding Hamish. Beside him, John had given up and was watching the principal intently, his soldier façade still strong.

The black robes and hats made it hard to tell the difference between students, but Sherlock quickly deduced they were in alphabetic order, and he located the _H_'s by spotting a young girl near the aisle by the name of Pamela Hooper, whose mother sat behind him. He backtracked to where he assumed the early _H_'s were, and sure enough, Hamish was slouched in his seat, playing with the tassel that hung over his face. If it wasn't for the vaguely different robe, anyone would assume the uninterested student was anything but the valedictorian.

At some point during his search for Hamish, the _A_'s began receiving their diplomas. Every time a name was called, John clapped politely, but by the time they got to the _D_'s he only gave one or two claps for those who he knew. When his son's group was called to line up next to the stage, Sherlock could feel his husband tense up beside him. He reached over and threaded his fingers through John's, squeezing supportively. The doctor licked his lips subconsciously, breathing out deeply through his nose.

"Hamish Holmes-Watson," the principal announced, and John erupted beside him. He released his hand, clapping his own together thunderously, his face still a soldier's mask. Sherlock assumed he'd keep it on as long as physically possible, then crumble tonight. Their son walked up onto the stage, grabbing his diploma and exiting. He barely paused long enough for the photographer to snap a picture before hurrying off the stage and back to his seat.

The rest of the ceremony dragged on and on, and if it wasn't for John beside him, anchoring him down by his hand, Sherlock would have left right after Hamish received his diploma. He didn't care about these other students. Why should he? They would all most likely grow up to amount to the same thing as their parents: Not much. They were mediocre… subpar… _boring_.

Sherlock sighed and leaned his head back, closing his eyes to block out everybody else.

_He trekked through halls, taking arbitrary turns to lose himself in his Mind Palace. He wasn't looking for anything in particular; just dawdling. He ascended a staircase, moving away from the scientific portion of his mind and heading for the more personal information. Friends, family, etc. Behind doors he could locate deceased members from his past, old school bullies, and an array of uncomfortable encounters with strangers. He passed these doors indifferently, his fingers brushing the thin images his mind created._

_ The foggy hallway turned left, and he followed it to the end of a corridor, coming to a dead end. His Mind Palace usually didn't end like that, though. He looked around, thinking maybe his thoughts had played a trick on him. Surely there was no end to the limitless maze that was this palace. But when he turned, he only saw the stretch of hall he had just walked through, and the misty door it lead to. With the feeling of disarray, he reached over and turned the pictured knob, pushing his image through the doorway. _

_ Memories massed around him, swathing him in a sickly-sweet blanket. He could see an ex-army doctor, regal and distinguished, scarred by a war and hardened by every burden life threw at him. Where a bloodied body, injured in battle, had once lied still, there was a baby. In his arms the infant was cradled gently, sleeping. John looked up from the child, his eyes red-rimmed. "Hamish…" he whispered, almost too softly to hear._

_ The image faded away, only to be replaced by another. A little boy with hair curling around his lively eyes grinned up at him, holding out his hand, palm up. His soft, porcelain skin acted as a pillow, cushioning a tiny treasure. A pearl-white tooth, hard as stone and small as a bug, glistened up at him. "I lost my toof," his voice slurred cutely, and Sherlock kneeled down, accepting the gem. _

_ The picture diminished, and Sherlock turned himself around, careening through the confusing hallways that were usually so simple for him to maneuver. He passed door after door, suddenly forgetting the layout; it really _was_ a maze. _

_ He was missing it. He was missing his son's graduation because he was in this damned palace. He missed so much of Hamish's growing up that he cherished every single moment he did happen to catch. He had dedicated an entire room to memories of his child without even knowing it! And now was his last chance to add to that room. He wouldn't be a kid anymore. After this, Hamish would be an adult, off on his own. _

_ Sherlock had to get out._

His eyes opened and his head snapped up, and he glanced down to make sure the graduates were actually still in the arena. Sure enough, the glossy robes were still shuffling restlessly from side to side like a massive, satin ocean. The principal was speaking again, only now he seemed to be introducing someone. His arm extended in welcome, and the stadium, along with unenthusiastic students, clapped. One person stood from the crowd of black robes and walked forward, head high. He strode right past the principal when he offered a hand shake, and came to rest behind the podium, looking out at the crowd. He sighed.

"I was told I had to make a speech," Hamish started, earning a laugh for his scathing tone. Beside Sherlock, John twitched in his seat, seemingly forcing back a proud grin. "I was told to write something inspiring and passionate; a final speech to wrap up this year and tie it with a big bow. For those of you that know me, you will understand why I found this to be complete bullshit." John's breath hitched as the students howled with laughter and the stadium audience murmured in astonishment. The side of Sherlock mouth twitched upwards. _That's my boy._

"Oh, sorry," he said sarcastically, looking around at the stands, "I wasn't aware that you had never heard that word before." Hamish smiled mockingly and looked away, shuffling a sheet of paper he had resting on the podium. When the laughter died down, he looked out and sighed again. "This isn't even a speech," he admitted, holding up the paper. "It's a doodle of puppy committing suicide. It had to sit through one of Mr. Hall's lectures." He turned his attention to the principal, grinning pleasantly.

"No, but in all actuality, many of you will amount to nothing in the end." The room grew silent apart from a few uncomfortable chuckles, and he stared at the crowd, a solemn expression on his face. "You will settle down somewhere and give up, perhaps taking a partner into you home to wallow in your self-pity along with you. You'll complain of never having enough money, or of never being happy, yet you will do nothing to fix it. Many of you might even lose your job and live an empty and isolated rest of your life alone on the streets, begging for money.

"Some of you won't go to college. You'll find a small job here and claim it's only temporary until you find what you want in life. And you will stay with that job for the rest of your days. You will find a home here and be unable to leave, and you will die here, with people you have known for your whole life. You will die not knowing what's out there, waiting for you, because you couldn't get out of your cozy den you created. You will die here, alone and sad."

Jaws hung open and eyes grew wide with every word he spoke, and people awkwardly cleared their throats to break the silence. John's face had grown red, and he looked like he was feeling a mixture of humiliation and fury, both of which were bad news for Hamish. Sherlock kept a straight face, watching his son intently. The teenager's head swung back and forth, as if he was searching for prey. As if he was trying to find something in the mass of graduates before him.

"I want each and every one of you to burn my speech into your mind. I want you to think of it when you leave this room, and when you go to sleep at night. I have seen so many people in my life, and so many things. I have met every single one of you at some point, and I know you can do this one thing for me: Prove me wrong. I want you to make me a _liar_. I know you, and I know you can do this. And that is not bullshit." The class erupted in applause, some even standing. Slowly, the stadium stood as well, cheering loudly. John whooped and hollered proudly, turning to those around him and proclaiming 'He's my son.'

Sherlock, applauding, stored the memory safely away in his Mind Palace. He watched as Hamish walked off the stage, heading humbly for his chair. He smiled to friends and sat back down amongst the crowd, disappearing from sight. The detective inadvertently gave a watery grin, unable to hold it back any longer. His eyes misted, but he blinked it away. Hamish wasn't that little child anymore. He wasn't small and fragile and new; he was brilliant. He was inspiring and passionate and _brilliant_. He had the mind of the consulting detective himself, but something extra to make him the good man he was. He had John's heart, his emotion, to make him who he was. He was able to take that brilliant mind and put it to good use, spreading his passion to others, who would then spread it again.

He sat back down with the rest of the crowd, letting the principal take the podium again. He looked out at the graduates, finding Hamish quickly. His son sat slouched in his seat, playing with the swinging tassel in front of his face. Sherlock's mouth quirked up in a proud smirk. _That's my boy._


	6. Retirement

Retirement

John was nearly seventy years old when Sherlock decided to retire. They were heading home after a newly-solved case, the third in a row, and they had just entered the flat. Sherlock threw off his coat joyfully, feeling the rush of being right yet again. Even after all those years, he still had it. His mind was still sharp, and everything was clear.

"John, I think I read something in the paper about a death just outside the city. I figure we can check it out tonight and see if it's interesting." He turned to his partner, wanting to see that adventurous glint that always lingered in his eyes. As much as the man pretended to be appalled at all of the blood and gore, the detective knew he loved it. The familiar thrill-seeking spark was nowhere to be seen, however. What he saw instead sent a chill through his bones.

His husband was making his way slowly to the living room, one hand gripping his thigh. Every time his left leg hit the ground he visibly winced, screwing up his mouth in a painful grimace. John waited to reply until he had collapsed in his chair, and when he did his voice was breathless. "Yeah, sure," he muttered, leaning his head back and closing his eyes. Sherlock was sure that if hearts could break, his certainly did at that moment.

John was limping, and it wasn't psychosomatic.

He should have known that John would always be the reason he decided to retire. He couldn't keep dragging his husband around London for the rest of his life. He was physically hurting John by doing so, and now that he had, Sherlock truly felt awful.

He wanted to make it up to the old doctor as best as he could, but he knew it would never be enough. They moved into a home in the countryside, with a big back yard and a garden. John said it was perfect, but Sherlock wasn't sure. He just wanted his husband to be comfortable, but every day he was forced to limp across the whole house to get something he wanted. Whenever he could, Sherlock would retrieve it for him, letting John rest his leg.

"I'm fine, Sherlock," he would insist, hopping lightly as if to prove his point. But Sherlock could see him when John thought he wasn't looking. He'd lean against a wall or massage his leg, and every single time it killed him inside. This wasn't something he could fix by taking him off on an adventure or deducing something like he always did. This problem was lost on him, and he had no idea how to make it better. He could try, of course, but nothing ever worked. He could bring him a thousand cups of tea, but not one of them would heal that leg.

It wasn't like he wanted the leg to be better so he could go off on more adventures, though. Sherlock was getting old, and he knew it. He could see the gray in his hair and the lines on his face. Perhaps it was time to wind down, finally, and take things slower. He could tend to the garden, or maybe get some bees to handle. He could find things to fight off boredom; the lack of adventures didn't matter. He only wanted John to feel better. He could see the pain in the ex-army doctor's eyes when he walked, and Sherlock wanted nothing more than to make it go away.

"Do you ever wish you could go back?" John asked one afternoon, sitting on a chair on the back porch while watching his husband garden meticulously. Sherlock peeked over a shrub for a moment before ducking back down to tend to the roots.

"Go back to what?" he called out, rolling up his sleeve to reach underneath the low-hanging leaves. He absentmindedly fingered dirt over exposed roots, already knowing what his husband was asking. He just wanted to stall, because he honestly wasn't sure of his answer. On one hand, yes, of course he missed it. The constant excitement that came from running towards a serial killer, or the feeling of blood rushing through his veins at the thought of how much danger he was in. Of course he had moments where he wished he could go back and do it all again.

"Back to London," he mused. "Do you ever wish you could have taken on more cases before you retired? Caught a few more murderers?" There was no denying the yearning in John's voice, for what Sherlock assumed was adventure. But there was still no ignoring the tiredness in his tone. No denying his lethargic movements and painful winces.

In the end, it would always be those signs that made Sherlock never wish to return to London, or a single crime scene, again. Those flinches and slow movements killed him every time, more so than the boredom he found himself facing. He didn't care about the crimes or the excitement, or even his new, tedious schedule. He should have known his husband would always come first. It would always be John.

Sherlock raised himself to peer over the shrub again, looking across the garden to John. "Honestly," he called, taking a breath, "no. Not one bit." He allowed himself a smile before stooping back down to the dirt. The relief he saw in his husband's eyes had been worth it. Ultimately, that was so much more rewarding than a case.


	7. The End

**Notes: **Last chapter!

_Took you long enough!_

Yeah, yeah, I know... Sorry about that. Writer's block, school, yadda yadda. The usual. Anyway, I hope those of you who are still reading this enjoy. Thank you so much for sticking with me, through all of my erratic updates. Hehe... Sorry, again.

* * *

**The End**

Sherlock awoke at three in the morning, according to the clock on his nightstand. He buried the side of his face into his pillow, blinking away the sleep. It wasn't utterly unusual for him to wake up so early, but he normally only did so when had plans the next day. Seeing as his schedule for the whole week was completely blank, he wasn't entirely sure why he was up at the moment.

He rolled onto his back to stare up at the ceiling that was softly illuminated by the moonlight that bled through the curtains. Out of the corner of his eye he could see John, who was facing away from him, curled up in the blankets. One arm hung outside the duvet, resting on his side as he slept. Lucky for Sherlock, John was never one for cuddling. Not that he objected to physical contact with his husband, but every once in a while he needed his space.

Sherlock turned his head to look at John, trying to memorize the way the moonlight hit his now-gray hair. Above the blanket, his shoulder was clearly visible, the faint scar that still marked his skin standing out from the rest of his bare arm and back. Sherlock smiled to himself and reached over with a finger, tracing the scar so lightly his nail was barely brushing the skin.

John had always been extremely ticklish; it was his little secret he had attempted to keep from the detective as long as possible. But Sherlock had seen how he pulled away whenever the spot just below his ear was kissed, or whenever he hugged him at the sides. Sometimes he would sneak up behind the doctor and graze his fingers against the back of his neck just to watch him erupt with laughter whilst yelling in faux anger. He'd squirm beneath his hands, hooting, until they both collapsed on either a chair or a bed, smiling stupidly at each other.

Sometimes they'd stay up late at night sitting close together on the couch, John watching a movie and Sherlock busy reading a book. Neither minded that they were consumed by different activities, so long as they were spending time together. As the movie progressed, John would usually end up cuddled against his husband, subtly falling asleep by the end of it. Whenever this happened, Sherlock would set his book down and cover John in a blanket, letting him rest while he went to the other room to finish his reading. In the morning, he would almost always wake up to John making him breakfast.

Sherlock smiled at the memories. John still slept silently, looking peaceful. The detective reached over almost timidly, not wanting to shatter the image. John Watson, the powerful army doctor who had been through war and death, a man with unlimited bravery, was laid out before him, completely vulnerable beneath the sheets. Only a single layer of cloth covered the old veteran, and his scarred skin was the only thing that mutilated the picturesque scene. Still, he looked like some sort of artwork, painted out with precise and tactful brushstrokes.

Sherlock broke the calm portrait, skimming his fingers against the bare wrist.

His stomach coiled.

John was cold. He wasn't just cool from the autumn air, either. John was _freezing_; the kind of cold he had encountered before. Years ago, when Sherlock was still an active Consulting Detective, he came across this nearly every day. It was the kind of cold that came over a body that hadn't had blood pumping through its veins for a long time. It was the type of cold he felt on corpses. It was the cold of a dead body.

And John was that cold.

Sherlock sat up numbly in bed, knowing what he should do, but unsure of how to go about it. He instinctively reached over and grabbed John's hand in his own, the stony skin making his chest tighten. He checked for a pulse, but where a lively, steady beating should have been, he felt only still, heartbreaking silence. He tugged his arm up by the wrist, an act that should have evoked some response from his husband. John didn't move, his arm hanging limply in Sherlock's.

The next several minutes ticked by in slow, grinding seconds, making everything that much harder. Sherlock vaguely recognized that he had stumbled off the bed, dragging himself to a phone to call the police, an ambulance, a neighbor… He wasn't really sure. When he hung up, he returned to his room. It felt empty.

Still on his side of the bed, John was lying motionless. Sherlock stepped forward slowly, sinking to the floor at the bedside and staring at the still figure. He looked, well… dead. From this point-of-view, Sherlock could only see every sign of a dead body. There was no movement beneath the eyelids to suggest John was merely dreaming deeply, his face was as white as a polished skull, and there was no steady rise and fall of his chest as he breathed. He reached out tentatively, touching a finger to his husband's cheek softly. "John…"

There was a knock at the bedroom door, and a few uniformed officers entered the room. They were silent. Or maybe they wouldn't stop talking; Sherlock wasn't really sure. He could only watch helplessly as they hefted John's body onto a gurney. A thin white sheet was lifted up to cover him, and Sherlock caught one last glimpse of his husband before he was hidden underneath. He was vaguely aware that an officer had put a bright orange blanket— a shock blanket— over his shoulders. He subconsciously curled his fingers tightly around the edges and pulled it securely around himself, feeling a chill in his bones.

Beside him, someone in uniform clutched the gurney and started to wheel it out, taking John with him. Sherlock looked up as they disappeared, along with the other officers, his vision blurring. "John," he choked, "please…" His throat tightened painfully, and a broken sob left his lips. He sucked in a harsh breath, his shoulders trembling. "Don't leave me. Please," he screwed his face up, a hole in his chest growing. "Don't be dead."

The last officer exited the room, and for the first time since the day he met John, Sherlock was entirely alone

* * *

.

_Sometimes,  
life seems to drag on at a sluggish pace,  
drawing out infinitely.  
But when it finally comes to an end,  
you realize it's all gone by  
in the blink of an eye,  
and you'd give anything  
for it to be longer._


End file.
